


Knife to the Heart

by ellbie



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21386623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellbie/pseuds/ellbie
Summary: Crowley is hurt, Aziraphale is panicking, and Crowley's flat might be the only place that's safe.Prompt is from the Ineffable Tarot collection.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 120
Collections: Ineffable Tarot





	Knife to the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [ellbie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellbie/pseuds/ellbie) in the [Ineffable_Tarot](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Ineffable_Tarot) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> 9 of Swords (Reversed): Feeling internalized (or too much) anxiety regarding a loved one. Dealing with feeling like a hermit. Feeling unsafe.
> 
> 4 of Swords (Reversed): Can't turn inward to retreat to mental safety. Moving too fast instead of being patient.
> 
> 8 of Swords (Reversed): Trauma that needs to be healed (but is being blocked), Internally feeling pinned or entrapped, A dark night of the soul (but suffering inwardly only), Understanding the power of fear (either repressed fetrar or fear that feels too great)
> 
> Interpretation: Aziraphale is freaking out about Crowley's wellbeing (9 of Swords (Reversed)), tries desperately to get him somewhere safe (4 of Swords (Reversed)), and manages to survive the most terrifying night of his life (8 of Swords (Reversed)).

"Panicking" couldn't be used to describe what Aziraphale was doing at the moment. "Panic" was simply too polite a word to describe the intensity of the feelings that were short-circuiting the angel's brain. 

No, "panic" just wouldn't do for this situation.

Crowley wasn't moving, and what Aziraphale was doing in response was, for lack of a better phrase, losing his collective shit.

Minutes before, there'd been at least a whimper, a breath, eyelids squeezing against tears, a hand curled limply against his chest. But slowly the breaths had come less frequently, the tears had dried away to salty streaks that traced his cheeks, and the weak cries had grown quieter and quieter.

And now he wasn't moving at all.

A cry caught sharp like a knife in Aziraphale's throat. He choked out a sob and started to beg, plead, _demand_ that Crowley wake up. He screamed hysterically, yelling for God, Someone, _Anyone_ to just, please, make those eyelids flutter open, make that smart mouth curl into a smirk, make that drawling voice speak the name "angel" so gently.

But the demon didn't move, and Aziraphale was stuck there, alone in his bookshop with a body that was slowly starting to go cold under his desperate hands. 

Then, Aziraphale noticed a flutter of a pulse at Crowley's neck, faint but still there. He hadn't discorporated yet.

Carefully, Aziraphale slid his arms under Crowley's broken body, one scooping gently under his knees and the other hugging around his back. He stood with his friend in his arms and all but ran to the Bentley. He knew he had to get out of the bookshop in case the Archangels came back, and Crowley's flat was the only other safe place he could think of. But there was a problem: like with most mechanical and technical innovations that he simply ignored over the centuries, Aziraphale had never bothered to learn how to drive Crowley's car. Fortunately, the concern was promptly forced out of his mind by the clawing sense of dread that threatened to rip his chest apart. 

With a thought, the passenger door opened, and he gingerly sat Crowley in the seat. "There you go, dear. Try to stay with me now," he murmured through tears as he fastened the seat belt around Crowley -- less for safety and more so that he wouldn't slump forward and collide head first into the dash. After closing him in, Aziraphale ran around to the driver's side, wrenching the door open and nervously scrambling in.

He looked at the steering wheel with a blank stare. He'd been in this car with Crowley hundreds of times now, but he couldn't recall the actual steps for making the car do anything. In fact, most of what he could remember from being in the car was the vivid image of the backs of his eyelids as he braced himself against all of the near-death experiences Crowley accelerated into with abandon.

_Oh, tosh._

He concentrated again, and the vehicle sprung to life without Aziraphale lifting a hand. _You know where we need to go, _he told the car, and without another thought, the Bentley was off, tearing toward Crowley's flat in a peal of squealing rubber and smokey burnout. Aziraphale barely noticed the way his body was pressed back into the seat by the momentum. He was only looking at the crumpled body next to him. Glancing down at his own hands, he realized that they were covered in blood. He blinked and slowly turned to look at Crowley again. His dark clothes hid the stain incredibly well, but under the waves of passing street lamps, Aziraphale could see the wetness spreading across the black waistcoat. 

He reached out and took Crowley's hand in his. "My dear. My love, please wake up." He squeezed that hand tighter, hoping to coax warmth and life back into it. "Please talk to me. Crowley, _please._" Tears were streaming down his face again, and he attempted to rub them off with his sleeve without smearing any of Crowley's blood on his face. He took a shaking breath and pet the back of Crowley's hand. "There, there. We're almost home. You'll be right as rain soon, I promise." He watched with bated breath until he saw that delicate, moth wing pulse flutter in Crowley's throat once more. _I swear you'll be OK, _he thought miserably.

Within seconds of parking outside of Crowley's building, Aziraphale was cradling the bloodied demon in his arms and rushing him up the stairs. Miraculously, no one on the street or in the building noticed them. The door to Crowley's flat swung open easily as soon as Aziraphale approached. He hurried inside, running toward the bedroom, and, as carefully as he could, dumped Crowley's weak form onto the black, silken sheets. 

When a pained groan escape Crowley's lips, Aziraphale almost cried out for joy. He didn't want to see him hurting, but he was willing to do whatever it took to hear a single sound of a life still moving through the body that sprawled out painfully in front of him. This was a body that he'd known for more than 6000 years, and he'd be damned if he let if fail on Crowley now. Aziraphale grasped the demon's hand again, encouraging him to squeeze his back, but the fingers just curled feebly against his palm.

_Dammit, _he swore in frustration. What could he do? What could he do to make Crowley wake up and, in a pained, embarrassed anger, tear out of the bed and pin Aziraphale against the wall, only to hiss in his face, "Who let you into my flat? And what in the bloody hell are you doing _holding my hand?" _

Then the demon groaned again, an awful, wet noise that choked out of his throat. Aziraphale sobbed and wrapped his arms around Crowley's body, hugging him close. He knew he couldn't heal the wounds that Gabriel had inflicted on him, and he trembled violently as the memory of Gabriel thrusting the blade smoothly, surgically, through Crowley's abdomen poured over him like ice water.

_"So, you managed to ruin everything. You managed to escape your punishment. We were going to let that be that and move on." _

Gabriel had sneered at him with so must hatred and disgust that Aziraphale could almost feel the blade piercing his own body. 

_"And then we come to find that you weren't just cooperating with the enemy. No, you were in _love _with him. A demon. This _disgusting_ abomination. A _Fallen_ angel." Gabriel ripped the sword out, sending an arc of dark blood spraying onto the worn, wood floors and carefully wiped the blade clean with a white handkerchief that he pulled delicately from his jacket pocket. When he was finished, he tossed the bloodstained cloth aside and sneered. "Aziraphale, really, we thought you had standards."_

And with that, they'd left. Aziraphale's mouth hung open in horror while Crowley's hands grasped bewilderedly at the wound. He hadn't been wearing his sunglasses, so the angel got to watch, painfully frozen where he stood, as those bright, beautiful, wonderful amber eyes, wide with so much fear, met his and then slowly dimmed as Crowley collapsed to the floor.

Now, in Crowley's bedroom, Aziraphale held him even tighter. "Crowley, please. Tell me what to do. I'll do anything you wish, anything at all. Please, my love, please. Please. _Please_. Don't leave me like this, I'm _begging _you. I'm sorry I've never asked before. All those years..." he sobbed, "I wasted so much of your time. I'm so sorry. But please, I promise, I won't waste another second, not if you just wake up. Come back to me. Talk to me. Anything." He was begging, holding Crowley so close that they were both covered in blood, and Aziraphale was worried he was doing more harm than good. But he couldn't bear to let go. 

And then, Crowley groaned again. The sound wasn't that bloodied, choking noise this time: it was a proper, annoyed groan.

"Erg... Gerroff me, angel." 

And Aziraphale flew back and stared at those lips with wide, wondrous eyes. He didn't dare to breathe. _Again, _he prayed._ Please, say it again._

Crowley coughed, sending blood and spit flying onto Aziraphale's lap. "If... _ergk... _the bloody... _ngk..._ sword didn't do me in... _ghk... _you crushing me'll do it." His eyes opened -- slowly brightening like gold turning molten by heat -- and flitted down to Aziraphale's bloodied clothes. "Sorry," he croaked weakly, indicating the mess.

Aziraphale just cried and grabbed him again, sobbing into his neck. He felt Crowley melt into him, and they stayed like that for hours, long after the tears and blood had dried. Aziraphale rocked him steadily, allowing all of the questions and wishes and dreams he'd kept hidden away for years flow out of him like a current, making them real with his voice. Crowley took them all in, and everytime he tightened his embrace, Aziraphale knew he was answering with a silent "yes, yes, yes."

Outside, the dove-grey clouds burned away as the sun rose over London.


End file.
